


The Only Sound

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (2013), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Drift Compatibility, Good Steve, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Character Death Through Flasbacks, Past Child Abuse, Poor Tony, Protective Bruce, Protective Steve, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony needs Steve, because the fight - the <i>world</i> - needs Tony, and Tony can't operate the jaeger without Steve.</p><p>But he, <b>damn it</b>, he can't let go of Bruce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Sound

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

_“_ _Fury’s going to have your ass if you keep sneaking in here.”_

_The smile that ripped across Tony’s face was forceful and burning, as if Bruce’s voice was some euphoric drug he’d shot himself up with and gone under for. Unrepentantly, he tossed that smile over his shoulder, chuckling beneath his breath at the sight of the other man restraining one of his own._

_“And what would he do to you, Doctor Banner, if he knew you followed me?” He threw back. Under the laboratory’s dim lighting, Bruce moved more like a shadow than a man, but it was warmth, and not sunless cold, that wrapped itself around his body as Bruce pressed to his back._

_“Nothing.” It was mumbled into his ear, hot with life and humor that made him shiver. Fingers tickled up his sides, moving to lock around his front. “He knows how bad of an influence you are. He feels sorry for me.”_

_That was actually the truth, but – “Good influence, I think,” Tony rumbled, smile morphing to a smirk as he pressed himself back against his partner just to hear the gasp. Bruce didn’t disappoint, the hitch of breath like cool water down his throat. “Eight months ago, you wouldn’t have come above basement level, let alone slipped into the laboratory after hours for … questionable … reasons.” He moved again, an intentional grind of friction that dragged a husky laugh. The vibration of it against his back was … something else._

_“Oh, my reasons are questionable, are they?” Without warning, Bruce’s hands darted to his arms, twisting him into a one-eighty spin that backed him against the table with just a touch of roughness that made his stomach jolt. The brown eyes that met his, however, were as warm as ever, gentle in their want. “I don’t think there’s much question to anything I’m going to be doing here, Tony.”_

_Without preamble, Tony hoisted himself onto the sturdy metal, stretching his legs to wrap around his partner’s waist and drag him closer, chuckling again at how easily he was obeyed. Bruce’s hands were hot, a steady stream of heat as they slipped beneath his tank to caress his back. Tony felt the sudden, yearning urge to arch into the touch, to purr like the cat this man always accused him of being._

_“Show me the answer, then,” he demanded instead._

_The order earned a laugh as the hands pulled him forward, bringing them as close together as they could be outside the Drift, and when Bruce leaned in to nip at his lips, Tony closed his eyes against the glow of the screens to be sucked in._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He meets Steve Rogers for the first time across the mat of the Combat Room.

 

The noise of the room is just a faint buzz in his ears, neverending and deafening, people and movements nothing more than the blurry images of a silent picture on a worn-out screen. The boxing gloves are tight and unforgiving around his hands, suffocating any sensation from his skin, and somewhere in his mind, he’s thankful for it. He’s on autopilot, completely, drinking in water instead of oxygen and drowning in it, except pathetically, he’s not dying.

 

Tony feels a sudden weight across his shoulders and knows it’s Clint – it’s always Clint, anymore – lets the man pull him the few steps back necessary to be at the edge of the mat. The mat. He had never intended to be in this room again.

 

“C’mon, Tony,” _Clint_ , damn it, mutters lowly against his ear, massages his shoulders in familiar technique. “Buddy, you gotta do this. You _can_ do this. I promise you can.”

 

There’s a cluster of movement in the group of undistinguishable men and women on the other side of the room that his eyes track and his brain doesn’t really acknowledge. Do this? He can’t fucking do this – he’s _done this_. He’s **_done this,_** _he shouldn’t have to be doing it again-_

“Rogers.” Clint’s fingers tighten on his shoulders, dig in a little too sharply, the spike of pain pushing into the fog of his mind like a repulsor burst. It bites a sting at his eyes, and unwillingly Tony looks up, breaks apart the people in the room to outline the man that steps in front of all of them. Blonde, massive and dangerous looking, hands bound in gloves that gleam a blue that matches the color of his narrowed, waiting eyes. “This is the guy I was telling you about, the one Fury thinks could work.” The fingers tighten again, punching in an intentional spasm that makes his jaw clench. He doesn’t remember a word about any Rogers.

 

But the man is staring him down like he knows everything about him, doesn’t blur up the way the others had.

 

Automatically, Tony steps forward, pulling away from Clint’s hands – the damage is already done. He _feels,_ the ache in his muscles from the three previous fights, the burn of breath he hadn’t realized he was panting out, the _emptiness_ inside of his head from the body that isn’t here. He watches as the blonde – Rogers – steps  up too.

 

And realizes, like a bullet to the gut, the blue eyes are shining with sympathy. (Every other gaze has been either pity judgment, every whisper an idea to retire him or beat sense into him. He’s been scorned, knows the exasperation and hatred when he lets himself think, the turn of patience to anger, but never has anyone _dared_ to think that they could understand).

 

It pisses Tony right the fuck off.

 

The buzz in his ears has negated enough to hear Coulson’s count to fight, but something else builds up in its place, a roar of echoing rage stolen from a different source, and before Coulson hits one Tony is charging straight for Rogers, gloved fist raised to hit.

 

The man ducks at the last second, and then they’re rolling.

 

Tony hasn’t worked his body through these paces in near three months, but each movement is flawless. He’s slipped deeper than autopilot, feels his muscles as much as he feels his thoughts as he dodges a swing from Rogers, is dodged in return. There’s something sparking in his bones, a throbbing familiarity of a match skipping flames, something singing in timid glee as he lands on his back and flips up just as his opponent comes down, contact missed by a breath.

 

It’s hot, fast, and when they finally do meet, its Rogers’ glove smashing against his own in a block. Another move, and Tony’s wrist is twisting a blow away from his face at the last second.

 

 _They’re not hitting_.

 

“Enough!” Coulson’s voice; Rogers steps away in perfect obedience that almost leaves Tony to stumble back into the numbness of before. A foot kicks his, hard enough to snap, and he looks up. There’s a close distant roar of cheering – Tony is sure he hears Clint whooping in excitement – because this is what they’ve been waiting for. He’s done this … fuck, he’s _done this_.

 

“No.” The word skips from his mouth in a choke, dry and cracked and unheard as his mind begins to spin in white. The foot kicks him again with a little more force, but – “ _No!_ ”

 

It feels like he’s shredded his throat, shouting the denial, but the noise instantly dies, everyone turning to stare at him. He doesn’t return their looks, keeping his eyes straight on Rogers, who is still watching him with that same infuriating understanding.

 

“I am not,” he says slowly, forces out every word, “doing this with _you_.”

 

Tony turns before the man can respond, turns his back to the immediate sputtering and calls for his attention, darts from the Combat Room and the shadows.

 

( _“I think,”_ an old voice murmurs in his mind, exhausted and happy and so very much a memory he cannot lose, _“that we’re too good at this.”_ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Tony,” Bruce’s voice was patience and exasperation combined, a purely Bruce mixture that never failed to make Tony smile, no matter the circumstances of its use. “We are not naming it Hulk.”_

_“Of course we are!” He crowed back, waving off the other pilot’s thoughts without looking up from the schematics on the screen. “It’s massive, what the hell else would you call it?”_

_“Something SHIELD would approve of, maybe?” Fingers flashed in front of Tony’s face, tapping away at the screen to remove one image and replace it with another – shoulder canons,_ nice _. Bruce’s brain was such a fucking turn on. “A publicly voted on name, even?”_

_“Uh, no, boring? Thor and Loki did that, and look what happened. We lost out on a jaeger that could be called ‘Asgard’ or ‘Ragnarok’ for fucking ‘Rainbow Bridge’ instead. Rainbow. Bridge. And with a matching paint job, even. And while the constipated look on Loki’s face is totally worth it,_ we _are not piloting rainbows, Banner. No, nope.” He swiped the screen, pulling up the prints for the chest and helmet. “We designed it, we name it.”_

_“Hulk, though? Really?” Tony knew he wasn’t imagining the petulance in his partner’s tone. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”_

_“Let what go? The story of little baby Bruce Banner, who earned the nickname ‘Hulk’ because he lost his temper and wailed on kids in the playground for poking fun at him?” It was so much more than that, of course. Tony had been inside of Bruce’s head, had lived out practically every memory of his childhood in extensive detail – the pain and the anger it gave birth to, the rage that spiraled from the ‘Hulk’ episodes, the damage Bruce had done (all justified, as far as Tony was concerned) and the guilt he felt because of it. He felt it too, understood it on a level no psychiatrist could ever hope to reach, knew it as intimately as he knew Bruce, knew the pride of it as well as the hate. “Nah. I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and become a rage monster, sweetheart. It really does it for me.”_

_“Thanks,” Bruce responded dryly, stepping along the other side of the display. Through the outlines of their developed jaeger and the glass of the screen, Tony could make out the lines along the other man’s face, the slight downturn of his mouth, and knew immediately that his mind wasn’t on the present, wasn’t even on Tony, but lost in the twisting depths of the thoughts that had almost kept him from becoming a jaeger pilot at all. Without hesitation, Tony wiped the screen and moved it, stepping into Bruce’s space until they were sharing breath._

_“Stop that,” he said softly, nudging their toes together in a cute movement he knew would make the man melt. “I want it to have some of you in there, big guy. Hulk. That’s you – not them, just you. And there’s very little that would make me happier than piloting a piece of you.” He purposefully dripped innuendo into the sentence, delighting in the grin that jumped to the brunette’s face._

_“Red and gold color scheme. No.” Bruce cut off Tony’s protest before it could start. “Green’s_ my _color, and it already has my … name. Change it – I want it to have some of_ you _too, Tony. Please.”_

_With a sigh of resignation he didn’t feel, Tony obliging turned and pulled the specs back up. “Fine. Red and gold. The Kaiju will love it. Not exactly stealthy.”_

_Bruce wrapped his knuckles gently on his shoulder. “What’s stealthy about a Hulk?”_

 

* * *

 

 

The pillows are flat and the sheets are scratchy – the blanket is old and ratty and more threadbare than the hoodie hanging in his closet. There’s no warmth to them, no comfort, not anymore, but Tony has burrowed into them as deep as he can, huddled in the security of the top bunk and the distance it offers. Distance between him and the pounding, roaring knocks neverending against the steel of the door that separates him from everything waiting outside.

 

Hell. He knows, somewhere, that he can’t keep doing this. The Kaiju aren’t stopping just because he doesn’t want to keep moving. He _knows_ it, in the same way he knows that he has to eat, has to breathe. It’s … exhausting. Meaningless. Necessary. Cold. He pushes under the blanket a little more, presses down into the corner of the mattress in some wishful hope that he’ll sink into it; there’s no pain that chases down the shudders that rip through his body, but they hurt all the same.

 

There’s yet another knock on the door, the suddenness of it in the momentary silence stealing a flinch across his face. It’s different than the others – not the heavy pounding of Fury, or the reluctant but firm raps from Clint. It’s almost apologetic sounding, a minute hesitation in each tap that sounds more _I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry._ He doesn’t move, lets the rhythm match the pounding in his chest without reaching for it. Someone’s out there, that’s okay, he doesn’t have to let them in-

 

For some stupid reason, he’s not surprised when the door creaks open.

 

“You’d think someone would’ve checked if that was locked,” a man’s unfamiliar voice comments quietly, the rich notes of words dancing along the empty walls in a tired happiness. The squeak of rubber shoes on the floor is faint as the door clicks closed again, slowly moving their way toward the bunk set, no longer in synch with the pulsing of his heart. Tony sucks in a breath, holds it until the feet stop inches away, not moving the final few steps necessary to reach him, drag him out, make everything happen.

 

“My name’s Steve,” the man says after a moment, sending another skitter of happy sound throughout the room. “Steve Rogers. We didn’t get to get introduced earlier. It didn’t sit well with me, you not hearing me say my name. My ma always said that it was important to tell someone new in your life your name. That it meant more if they heard it from you. Couldn’t let it go.”

 

There’s a note to his voice that doesn’t really fit into anything in Tony’s life – a distinct lack of hardness and exhaustion that seems to thrive in the air in the Shatterdome, a measure of hope that hurts. Fuck, he doesn’t _want_ Rogers in here, _not in **here**_ , it’s not _fair_. But he can’t make himself move to sit up, can’t force his throat to accommodate the words.

 

“She died a few years back, in the Kaiju attack that hit San Jose.” There’s a low a chuckle, and it sounds a little more right, tinged with a bitterness Tony can relate to _get the fuck out_ \- “She had just convinced me to let her move out here with me, said if it wasn’t too dangerous for her baby, then it would be just fine for her.” Another bleeding sound. “I was in training when it hit – she was on the street, a few blocks from the shelter. Never made it there.”

 

The renewed shuffle of feet silences any thought Tony can give to the story; his body seizes as the final few steps are taken. For a second, he’s certain Rogers is going to reach out, pull the blanket from his body, yank him down – he can certainly feel those damn eyes on him, and hell if he’s going to look and see that same fucking expression. But the second passes, and instead of a weight on his body he feels a weight on the bed frame; hears the groan of the mattress of the bunk beneath him, the rustling of clothing and whoosh of breath as the man settles himself on Tony’s old bed.

 

“I didn’t tell you that to try to make it seem like I could relate to you. I’m not trying to manipulate you or, or guilt you into doing this with me.” Rogers has officially given this room more sound than it’s heard in months, good for him. “It’s okay what you’re doing, you know? People tell you it’s not, but … what do they know, really? What do any of us know about it? About you?”

 

 _A lot_ , Tony’s mind offers up, and he bites it down with a snarl, shifts as quietly as he can to push further down into the pillows. Stop, damn it, _stop_.

 

“I didn’t know him, your Doctor Banner.” The admission is so quiet Tony can barely hear it. “I heard about him, all the way over at Triskelion, and you too – saw your fights. Hulk moved like a dream under you two. But I never knew him. People here are saying that he wouldn’t have wanted you to be locking yourself away, that he wouldn’t have been so selfish if it had been him left alive. But I don’t think they knew him either. At least not like you did. No one could have known him like you did.”

 

Tony remembers Bruce’s shy and small smile, the way he would wilt under praise and snap at cruelty, his casual disregard for the stupidity of authority and his patient kindness toward the younger, green recruits who had been too nervous to properly function. His tendency to duck from confrontation had made him easy to underestimate, and true enough, whenever he and Tony had been caught breaking or bending a rule, blame had rarely been cast on him. Kind, quiet, even-tempered Bruce – that is how everyone in SHIELD remembers him. As if he hadn’t broken up drunken fights in the Mess with his own fists, messed with the programming in Hammer’s jaeger to the point where it had become unusable, wielded his genius with humble confidence he hadn’t been afraid to strike with. Steel determination and death inside of Hulk, right at Tony’s left side.

 

Rogers is talking again.

 

“If you think he would want you as you are, if he would defend you as you are, then keep doing it. You’re the only one left who can awaken Hulk, Tony, but none of us have the right to make you do that.” A pause, and there’s silence, as if Rogers isn’t breathing – Tony realizes he isn’t, either, hisses out a sore exhale. “But I want you to know, that if you want to try, I’ll take that leap with you. It’s not something you have to do by yourself, and if I can, I swear to God I’ll help you through it to the other side.”

 

Tony wonders, momentarily, if Rogers even knows he’s awake, or if the man’s speaking on the chance that he might be. Either way, he doesn’t respond.

 

Rogers lays on the bottom bunk, quiet, and for two following hours, doesn’t leave.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“People are dying.”_

_From the sink, Tony looked up, caught Bruce’s reflection in the mirror and held his eyes. His lover looked tired, the type of exhaustion that came from deep inside – the kind that hurt your blood and your skin and your bones, the kind that made everything beautiful taste bad. He was covered in sweat and grime, and when he shucked off his old worn-out jacket, bits of street dust flecked away to fall to the floor._

_It killed Tony, when Bruce would go out into the city. Not just because it was the only time, anymore, where they were separated by more than a dozen feet, or because he went out with no guard, no protection, no promise of coming back – Bruce could take care of himself, had watched his own back (and Tony’s) more than enough times to prove it. But because he came back like this, sorrowful and empty, slumped as if he had drained all of his energy by trying to pour it into the decaying streets and hopeless people. Trying to revive what wasn’t there anymore._

_Tony twisted the faucet until the water stopped, turned so that he could see Bruce fully. “There’s no healthcare,” the brunette continued, pulling his glasses from his face and tossing them uncleaned on the table – he was just as dirty as they were. “And no one_ who _cares. Diseases we have medicines for,_ vaccinations _for, are running rampant for no reason than that the people who have them live in a Kaiju hot zone. No one is even trying to help them.”_

_“You are,” Tony argued, because in this room they could acknowledge the truth. Once a week Bruce would hijack supplies from the infirmary, replicate medicines in the lab after hours, and sneak his way from SHIELD to the slums just to try and give people a fighting chance that the monsters of the fucking ocean were taking away from them. (It was a bet on whether or not Fury knew, but since the man wasn’t doing anything to stop it, neither were really willing to ask)._

_“It’s not enough.” The sigh the pushed itself from Bruce’s chest was so violent, so tired, that Tony all but raced the space between them, wrapped his arms around the other’s shoulders and collapsed into his lap, curling until most of his body was bunched into a position Bruce was forced to cradle. His partner, so naturally for him, huffed a hesitated laugh. “You’re getting dirty,” he warned, but buried his face into Tony’s neck anyway, releasing another sigh almost as violent as the first._

_“My middle name,” he quipped back, tightening his grip. Being able to hold Bruce was a rarity that he grabbed at every opportunity; his mind, Tony was always in touch with, but his body, outside of sex? He moved his arm a little, enough so that his fingers could stroke through the filthy curls on Bruce’s head. “You’re doing what you can, big guy,” he added softly, allowing the seriousness of the moment to seep into his voice. “It’s more than anyone else is doing.”_

_“But it’s not enough.” The words tickled uncomfortably against his neck. “The only thing that’s going to be enough-.”_

_“-Is to win this,” Tony finished, drawing in closer as he felt the other man begin to shake._

_“I don’t even know if it’s possible,” Bruce admitted in a quiet rush. “The Kaiju are getting stronger, and we’re … we’re not. We’re losing jaegers and pilots faster than we can make and recruit them. But.” His grip around Tony tightened. This close, it was strange to not be completely connected, to hear Bruce’s thoughts as clearly as his own, to be the same person. “We have to. They_ need _us to, Tony.”_

_“Then we will.” And God, if only it could be that simple, just saying the words and making it happen. Tony loved fighting, loved the thrill of piloting a jaeger and taking the life of a Kaiju – he couldn’t even deny the pride he held in his kill number. His life hadn’t really had much of a point, as horrific as it was to say, before the monsters had started popping up from the Pacific to kill. But he would give it all up, not just for the people, but for Bruce. To take the shadows of guilt from his eyes whenever he ate a full meal, or enjoyed the ten minutes of a hot shower, the security of the SHIELD Shatterdome to the unprotected streets._

_“Sometimes I think that I wish you weren’t such a good guy,” he muttered against Bruce’s ear, shifting until he could plant his feet on the floor. “That you could be a little more selfish. A little less caring.” A little less easy to hurt. Change the subject, you bastard. “You need a shower. And now so do I.”_

_“In a minute. Let me … let’s just sit here, like this. Just for a minute.”_

_As if it were a hardship._

 

* * *

 

 

 

The hoodie is too big for him, its black cloth swamping his form in a cover of discretion, and against the dark walls of SHIELD, he’s near invisible if he keeps his head down. It’s wonderful, a special type of quiet that doesn’t need the absence of noise to work. The material is thin, and despite its enormity there’s no protection from the chill of building, but he doesn’t really need it.

 

Tony waits, feet away from the entrance to the Mess stairs, and when he sees Rogers’ blonde head, so striking in the uncolored surroundings, he lunges, snatching at the man’s sleeve and dragging him back to the safety of the shadows.

 

“The he- _Tony?_ ”

 

“Shh!” Tony hisses, ducking his head from the surprised gaze so that the hood drops further over him, and pulls Rogers further, ducks into a slimmer hallway that hides storage closets and not many memories. To his credit, his hostage doesn’t really protest, follows at pace despite that the space is probably a bit too narrow for him. But the hall isn’t lit, relying on the casting of light from the main corridor, and it keeps prying eyes and demands from trying to reach in and take away what he can’t give.

 

When they reach the back, he turns toward Rogers again, keeps his head down.

 

“Look, I’m sure you’re a great guy, and a great pilot – you sure kept up with me – but I don’t even know if I can Drift anymore.” _With someone else_. It comes out in a rush, which sucks, because he had prepared it, thought of what he would say, and there were more words involved in what he had thought, a better explanation, but it’s out like that, a garbled mess that makes him seem pathetic.

 

“…I see.” Rogers sounds like he _does_ see, and at the same time, has no fucking clue what Tony has just said. _Tony_ has no fucking clue what he has just said. “Scientifically uncertain, in a way that tests can reveal, or mentally uncertain, as in it feels wrong?”

 

Tony’s not an idiot. The ground feels like rubber and his balance is somewhere between floating and steps that are too hard, but he knows exactly where Rogers is going with this. Immediately, the disconnected rage from the Combat Room returns with a vengeance.

 

“Fuck you,” he spits, balls his fists together to avoid launching a punch. “ _Fuck_ you, I don’t need you playing shrink inside my head. I don’t need you inside my head at all, why the hell did I even think this could work, you’re **_nothing_** like him, just another fucker who thinks he can handle a jaeger, well guess what, Drifting is more than just physical compatibility, you have to fit inside of my head, you have to be attuned to my thoughts, my damned _memories_ , you have to be stable with it or the fucking thing won’t even begin to work and if the first thing you’re trying to do is mold it to fit into a textbook drift you should just do the whole fucking world a favor and keep your feet on the ground and _out of a damn jaeger_.”

 

He’s thrown out more words in thirty seconds than he has all together in months – his throat is on fire, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s swallowed sandpaper or something, it’s stuck, he can’t catch his damn breath and the floor is a little more solid than he wants it to be.

 

“ _I’ll be damned_ ,” Rogers breathes out after a minute. Surprised at the unexpected words, Tony’s head jerks up – the idiot is _smiling_. “There you are.”

 

Tony wants to argue, to snap or snarl or whatever it is that will push the man away, but the exhaustion that slaps into him is thick and sudden, so fierce that he stumbles in his attempt to get around Rogers and just get out, go back to his room and his bunk and just-

 

“Whoa, easy.” Rogers’ hand clamps over his bicep, keeps him from slamming face-first onto the floor. There’s so much concern in the touch, in the voice, that sourceless tears immediately spring to Tony’s eyes; he bites them back with every surge of hate he can muster. “God, Tony, are you okay? Are you dizzy? When’s the last time you ate?”

 

“Tired,” he pushes out, tries to pull himself from the other man’s grip and spectacularly fails. “Sleep. Lemme go-.”

 

“You should eat,” Rogers argues, but when he leads them from the hallway, he doesn’t turn toward the Mess, keeps Tony steady as they had back toward the living quarters. “Let’s get you back to bed, I’ll bring you something later. We can talk once you’ve got something in you.”

 

He hates walking. Every step is dragged, jarring, a slap of feet against a too-hard surface and it hurts. He leans a little more into the taller man and hates himself for it. _Hurts_.

 

“Can’t Drift.” It comes out as a pitiful whimper as Rogers’ all but carries him to his door.

 

“You don’t know that.” He had never fixed the lock; it opened at a twist of the handle. “But you want to try. You want to see if this’ll work. That means something, Tony. We can try, and if we can do it…”

 

 _We can try to win the war._ He swallows. Hard.

 

“No, lemme- top bunk.” He shoves Rogers away when the man tries to lower him into his old bed, and another point to the blonde, he doesn’t debate. His hands, however, brace Tony’s hips cautiously as he climbs the three thin stair rods to make it up to the top, letting go only when Tony falls forward to flop into the thinness it holds. There might have been a huff of laughter as he cocooned himself immediately within the blanket, but it’s light and faded by the time he focuses again, squirming his head in search of the pillow.

 

“Sleep,” Rogers insists softly. Tony can’t see more than the top of his head, but he thinks there’s probably a smile there. Rogers is stupid enough for it. “I’ll bring you some food in a bit. And then we’ll talk.”

 

He’s done talking.

 

* * *

 

 

_At the first sight of Bruce Banner, Tony was caught between the desire to laugh and a strong concern that this was even happening._

_It had to be a joke. There was absolutely nothing in Banner that hinted that he could be a fighter, that he had any sort of significant strength at all, and yet there he stood, directly across the mat of the Combat Room from Tony, dressed in the same combat clothes as the other candidates, aged purple boxing gloves strapped and ready. No one on either side was laughing, not even Clint, who always seemed incapable of keeping a straight face when presented with an opportunity to mock someone (or at least to mock Tony. Fuck Clint, seriously)._

_“Ready?” Coulson’s voice was clear, and when Tony shot him a look as he moved into position (across from him, Banner did the same), Fury’s second officer seemed amused. An amusement that was aimed toward Tony. “The match stops at three hits. As always, please attempt to refrain from killing your opponent.” Tony snorted. That would be a little difficult, Banner looked like one knock would send him to the infirmary. “And – match!”_

_Surprisingly, Banner launched first. Tony should have been expecting it – speed was a necessity for fighters lacking bulk strength – but he was barely able to block the man’s punch before he had overcome his shock … and the smirk on his opponent’s face said that he knew it._

_“Pay attention,” Banner taunted, and rolled away before the hit Tony threw could connect._

_It became an almost immediate game of cat-and-mouse, if cat and mice attacked partook in boxing to settle their differences instead of death. What Tony had thought would be a quick match turned into an actual attempt on his behalf to hit the other man, but more often than not, his gloved fist was slamming directly into Banner’s, his head moving at the last second to avoid a bruising punch, knowing he was already going to miss a return throw before Banner had even moved to avoid it. Ten minutes in, driven with effort and intention, and they weren’t hitting. It was elating, like snorting coke and riding the high, and he’d be damned if there wasn’t a smile on his face, there had to be, he hadn’t been hit to feel the burn._

_“Stop, stop!” He called out, noting the Banner had already stepped back before he’d gotten the first one out. He flopped down to mat, stretching himself out in an overwhelming pleasure. He’d found it. “It’s him. Call it, Coulson. There’s no one else, don’t even. I Drift with this guy or no one else.” And laughed out loud when Banner collapsed beside him, not protesting his words._

_“Whoa. Wow. I think,” the man panted, grinning widely over the buzzing noise of the gathered crowd, “that we’re too good at this.”_

_“You’re right. We’re fucking_ great _at this.” He turned his head, lifting a gloved hand in the air. “Call me Tony.”_

_“Bruce,” his new partner answered, and bumped his own glove against Tony’s._

 

* * *

 

 

 

The device feels a familiar strange in Tony’s hands. The sparkle of purple, the sleeping gaps of green – his palms feel like they’re burning against the bite of ice, like he can’t let go.

 

His stomach is a twisting consistent roll of nausea from the sting of fruit and the softness of rolls – in truth, he can’t remember the last time he had eaten anything that hadn’t fit into one fist, any more than once every other day (three days? He hadn’t tried to keep count, really). It’s strange, his belly just shy of attempting agonized cramps of displeasure, his limbs a little heavy, his lips still bright with flavor.

 

From the room’s tiny table, Rogers is seemingly enjoying his favorite pastime of staring, blue eyes darting between Tony and the device with apparently no desire to focus solely on either, lightly tapping his fork against his own empty tray. It’s disconcerting, annoying as fuck.

 

“Not too sure how you think you’re going to help me with this if you’ve never Drifted before,” he snaps, the blunt pressure of tense fatigue licking up his neck to the base of his skull. His skin is itching for the comfort of the scratchy sheet and the taste of the pillow, the release of sleep. But there’s a certain sickening twist of excitement in holding the device in his hands, a familiarity he doesn’t particularly want to latch on to.

 

“I never said that,” Rogers protests immediately, and damn the bastard, he’s grinning as if he’s genuinely amused. “I said I’ve never connected inside of a jaeger. I’ve linked up before – walked through the Drift a few times with my friend, Bucky Barnes. It was … intense, but I know how it works.”

 

Tony starts at the name, surprise dredging up his spine. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter Widow pilot? Natasha Romanoff’s partner?” He’s never had the opportunity to meet either of them, but … Romanoff had been a candidate that had almost kept him from having any of these memories at all. He knows her name, her skill, Winter’s success rate, like a secondary schematic.

 

“Yeah.” The blonde shrugs, grin dimming to a fond smile. “We were compatible enough to have a stable connection outside of combat, but it broke if we were required to focus on anything else. But I know how the process works, and I know how it _can_ work.” His smile disappears entirely, gaze zeroing completely on Tony. “I’ve traveled through dark memories before, and come out the other side, with someone who didn’t quite match me. I _know_ I can do it with you.”

 

“Big words.” He twists the device in his hands again, carefully, eye catching the traces of wearing scratches too thin and neat to have come from his own fingernails. His swallows back another bite of bile. “These aren’t dark memories,” he reminds quietly. “I mean, I have those, you’ll definitely go through those at some point, but this is … this is something else. It’s almost guaranteed that I’m going to … chase the rabbit.” It’s a fucking terrible analogy, he hates it, _Alice in Wonderland_ , the hell?  Who even came up with this shit? “This Pons … it’s a different connection system than you’re used to. It’s designed specifically for interface and connection with Hulk. It’ll be more intense.”

 

“If you fall into a memory, that’s fine.” Rogers drops the fork to the tray with sharp ping, and Tony’s so damn tired of flinching at everything. “Better that it happens while we do this here, than in Hulk. I told you I’d help you through it, and I will. You have to trust that I will, Tony.”

 

Trust. “Yeah, well,” he hedges, abruptly antsy. “We’ll have to see, won’t we. Except not now. Shit, not now. I feel sick, I _will_ throw up on you.” It should be now, it should have been yesterday, it should have been immediately after they had discovered they were compatible. The world’s falling apart, and he’s being selfish – he’s being so damn selfish, but he can’t, it feels wrong, he can’t.

 

Rogers, however, doesn’t call him on it. “Tomorrow, 0900,” he says instead, gentle, and with no room for argument as he slowly stands, collecting their trays. “Get some more sleep. Tomorrow, Tony.”

 

Fucking hell.

 

* * *

 

 

_“I hate that you had to see that.”_

_Bruce had a thing for murmuring, when there was silence. Not whispering; there was no note of constrained breath to his voice, but actual murmurs, quiet rumbles from his chest that seemed unsure if they should actually come out. “I’m sorry,” he added, and beside him on the mattress, Tony shifted._

_“I think it’s an actual rule that you’re not allowed to apologize for any memories in the Drift.” They had killed all but the sink light, and even though it was only two in the afternoon, they were cloaked in makeshift night._

_But Tony didn’t need light to see, the image of freshly made scars from the buckle of a belt, the jagged edge of busted beer bottle, still perfectly clear in his mind. Their phantom aches and slices throbbed in precise locations on his own body, his back a distant echo of agony that would never actually reach him, his ribs tingling oddly with each unnecessarily shallow breath. He knew that if he followed the map printed on his body across the planes of Bruce’s own, he’d feel each rigged bump and smooth dip of his past._

_His partner snorted, a little too bitter to be amused. “It_ is _protocol to apologize when you fall into the memory, though.”_

_“We knew there was an increased risk of falling down the rabbit hole when we intensified Hulk’s Pons system,” Tony reminded him, scowling. “Knock it off. I don’t want you to apologize for it.”_

_“What is it you want then, Tony?” There was an invitation there, so clear in all that Tony knew of Bruce. And so thin, also in all that he knew of Bruce. He waited a beat, not taking the bait, and sure enough, Bruce continued speaking with an agitated growl. “Do you want to_ talk about it? _Do you want to play_ therapist? _Want me to tell you how my father used to beat me, used to hunt me down when I tried to hide, pull me out, make me bleed, because I’d done something stupid to make him angry? Do you want me to tell you how that made me feel? Want me to talk about my daddy issues?”_

_“No,” Tony said immediately, and gave in. Snarling away the ghostly pain attacking his senses, he rolled until he was on top of the other man, flush against him and weighing him down. The anger and self-loathing he was so used to feeling in their connections was naked in Bruce’s eyes, his defenses torn down from the memory’s assault. “I was there with you today, I felt everything you felt, both mentally and physically. **No.”** He slipped a hand over Bruce’s mouth before another anguished apology could come out. “Listen. I was there with you today. I. Was there. With you. You weren’t alone. Get it? You weren’t alone today, buddy.”_

_Bruce’s eyes softened above his hand, licking his lips as Tony withdrew it, and this time, the invitation was taken. He bent down, brushing his lips across the brunette’s in a breath of a movement before repeating, letting his touch become more than a brush. The kiss was slow, gentle even though it was hard, Bruce moving with a carefulness he only really exhibited with Tony._

_“Not alone again,” he breathed when they parted just far enough for air; pushed down for another chaste kiss. “Okay?”_

_“The hell did I do to deserve you, anyway?” His lover murmured, features twisting just enough to form a smile that he was quick to return._

_“Oh, something awful,” Tony promised. “In fact, tomorrow – no more today, you’re taking the rest of the day off, damn it all – I’ll fall into one of my own wonderful childhood memories. I mean,” he paused, flushing a little. “It’s not, I didn’t … I don’t … I’m not trying to say yours wasn’t bad-.”_

_This time it was Bruce’s hand over_ his _mouth. “Tony,” he scolded lightly, frowning. “It’s not a competition. Yours can be bad, too. It’s okay. And you don’t have to do that, but.” He took a deep breath, chest pushing into Tony’s in a movement Tony instinctively matched. “You won’t be alone, either. Whether you do it or not. Not again.”_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Strange, how something you haven’t worn in so long can still fit so perfectly when you try it on again.

 

No, he knows it hasn’t been that long. Three months isn’t three years, isn’t three centuries, isn’t three lifetimes. Twelve weeks. ( _God, only twelve weeks? Twelve weeks, twelve weeks back, thirteen weeks back, just earlier this year-_ ). The headpiece fits, hugs his head and his temples as if it had never left, embracing as if it had missed him, as if it can’t let go in fear that he’ll disappear again, leave it behind, walk away like he wants to do right now-

 

“What do they hook up to?”

 

Tony’s neck jerks up as if Rogers’ voice is a leash latched to his collar – the green device wrapped around the other’s head is a different sort of vibrant against blonde hair than it is brown, but it still shines like normal, as if it’s no big deal that this is different. He sucks in a rigid, deep breath, holds it until his heart stops pounding so hard.

 

“In Hulk, they hook up through the helmets, like Pons normally does. Out of Hulk, though, they hook up to each other.” The answer is so automatic, but when Rogers’ hand moves up to trace over the frame in tentative reverence, he feels a foreign, small pulse of pride. “Because when they’re not being used in a jaeger, they’re being used solely for pilot Drifting. For, uh … us, I guess.”

 

“Us,” Rogers agrees, dropping his hand. Unlike yesterday, he’s not smiling, but there’s an unguarded expression on his face – none of the enraging sympathy in his eyes. He has no expectations here, Tony realizes, and it’s odd. He should expect _something._ “So, they hook together … do we get out the same as a regular system?”

 

“Ideally, yeah. Walk off mentally, take the headpiece off after.” Tony twitches, reaching up to pull the connectors from the side panels. They feel warm in his fingers. “Same protocol as normal if someone gets stuck, too – pull yourself out, then take off their piece.” He pauses, remembers -  “There’s a safety feature to, uh, blunt and then stop the connection if both parties get stuck. I mean, it’s there, I helped write the code, but we’ve- _I’ve_ never had to use it, so.”

 

“Right.” Rogers is back to watching him, eyes unblinking as Tony steps forward to withdraw his own connectors. “Hey,” he whispers, breath brushing not unpleasantly against Tony’s cheek; he freezes anyway. “You remember what I said, right? That you don’t have to do this? No one will think less of you.”

 

He snaps the cords out of their compartment, yanking until they lock, and forces himself not to take the offer. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the table chair, pulls out his own with his free hand as he uses the others to hold the connectors. Rogers does as he demands, silent on the topic and observing curiously as he gathers the ends in his hands. “These initiate the connection, so when the last one is in-“ he snaps two of them together purposefully, feels a faint buzzing in his head, “-we’re under. Last chance to back out.”

 

“Do it.” The blue eyes are steely, and the sickening feeling is back in his gut.

 

“I’ll fall,” he reminds, warns. “It’s … I can’t … I’ll fall into a memory. I’ll chase it and I’ll fall.”

 

“I’ll be there. _Do it_.”

 

The third cords push together, and in a violent flash of white that makes Tony’s eyes roll back in his head, they’re under.

 

And he falls into that memory just as fast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_They’re out of the Shatterdome._

_Fury and Coulson will be pissed, Tony knows. Bruce sneaking out once a week is one thing – Tony joining him on a second venture into the city, as void of protections as Bruce always is, is quite another. Two is not as discreet as one, can’t duck into shadows as easily as one, can’t disappear from being a target as easily as one. They’re too well dressed, not enough malnourished, too_ alive _to blend in, it’s not safe._

_Clint’s covering for them._

_There’s a lightness to Bruce’s step as they walk cautiously through the city’s streets, an ease teased from his shoulders with each breath, a small smile twisted on his face as his fingers tighten warmly around Tony’s, carded together and comfortable. It’s raining, they’re soaked, and with the sun hidden under the overcast skies, the chill is beginning to set in, but Tony feels incredibly weightless, here. He knows there’s an answering smile on his own face to that of his partner, doesn’t fight the increased pressure against his fingers, the slight swing Bruce puts to their arms as they walk, their boots unruined by the puddles only because they’re made to withstand them._

_They’re here to check on a little girl who’s come down with pneumonia. Her apartment is at the edge of the slums, still far enough away that they can keep smiling. Bruce is worried about her, of course – children are a weakness of his, he melts like butter under their wide trusting eyes and innocent requests for help. His pack hangs from his other side, and in it there are a few sweets Tony had watched him swipe from Darcy’s desk. Candy is a distant memory to most on the Pacific coast, anymore, but a foreign commodity to children born after the monsters had risen from the sea. Bruce is excited to give them to the little girl and her siblings, hadn’t shut up about it until halfway through the streets, and even now Tony can feel faint traces of it in his mind._

_They squeeze through the crowd that swarms the market that stands between them and the child’s apartment. It’s dirty dealing and illegal contraband, but Tony doesn’t note, doesn’t judge – these people are making it the only way they can, the only way the world is letting them. Between physical Kaiju damage and the economic backlash, that they can survive here at all is a miracle. No one is crying, or screaming, or expressing any sort of fear. It’s okay._

_Bruce pulls at him a bit, his entire demeanor changing as the crowd becomes a bit thicker – habit, Tony thinks. An old defensive motion, from his childhood, from his adult life before the world went to hell. Make himself small, nonthreatening. It hurts to see it, to know that no matter what, Bruce will never be rid of those demons, will always feel shadows on his back when his shirts catch on his scars._

_So when Bruce tries to reel him in, tries to tuck him into his body and shield him from the gathered, pushy strangers, Tony doesn’t go. He smiles as the agitation he instantly feels, tightens his fingers reassuringly. He doesn’t want his lover to be scared anymore, doesn’t want him to fear for himself, especially not when Tony’s right there with him. He won’t let him do that to himself, won’t help put him in that headspace, and so he purposely slows enough to put a bit of space between them._

_Smirks when Bruce turns his head to glare, eyes practically screaming ‘I know what you’re doing, you bastard. You’re a dick, I hate you, stop it and get the hell over here, please.’_

_‘It’s okay, I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re fine.’ He tries to express back, keeps grinning. The fingers tighten almost painfully, but Bruce doesn’t tug again._

_They make it to the next block with no problem, the crowd thinning enough that Bruce begins to ease back down. His grip is still tight, and it’s still painfully obvious that he would be so much happier if Tony would just move in closer, but the little bounce is back in his step, and he grins a little when Tony starts swinging their arms._

_There’s a weird thing, about fighting a war – you either become suspicious of everyone, or you believe that the only thing out there that wants to hurt you, is what you’re fighting against._

_Tony doesn’t feel the pain, so much as the force of the effort put behind the fist that slams into the side of his head. He stumbles, caught off guard, his fingers yanking from Bruce’s hold as he loses his footing almost instantly, his knees smashing into the wet pavement._

_“Fuck the jaegers!” A strange, stale voice snarls above him._

**_“Tony!”_ **

****

_His vision is spotty, white lights dancing in his eyes as they have no right to, but he can see Bruce move, sees him step in front of the stranger to block him, sees him swing, and swing again. Bruce is unassuming, Bruce is small, Bruce is dangerous – his head hurts – this is fine. This is fine. Something falls._

_Something else falls in front of him._

_Tony blinks, blinks the lights and the rain from his vision, because there are two bodies on the ground, where there should only be one. There are two bodies, and one of them … one of them is Bruce. One of them is Bruce, and there’s no smile on his face, no lightness to his body, just stunned, tired brown eyes blinking at him, lips twitching wordlessly._

_“What’re you doin’?” Tony slurs. His hands hit the pavement, stinging as tiny pebbles embed themselves in his palms, and crawls the few inches he needs to get to Bruce, who is still looking at him with that odd expression on his face. Confused, Tony moves to shake him, misses his shoulder and slaps his stomach instead._

_Hot, sticky blood mushes against his skin at the contact._

_“Bruce?” Why is there blood, what happened, did Bruce hurt that guy seriously? Fury’ll have their heads. “Bruce?”_

_“O-o-ny.” It sounds a little wet – that’s okay, it’s raining, things should be wet – and when Tony’s eyes move from the strange blood on his hands and back to Bruce, there’s a trickle of crimson seeping from his mouth that doesn’t disappear in the rain, because it keeps coming out. He looks back down to where he’d hit Bruce, because the blood is supposed to be there, not in Bruce’s mouth-_

_There are five (six? three?) deep red splotches against the faded green of his partner’s shirt, forming a crude sort of circle between his rib cage and his bellybutton. Splotches that grow under the grey light of the sky, grow with each gaspy breath Bruce is taking that Tony can suddenly hear. He touches one again, watching his hand shake viciously as he does, and when it comes away red again, the pain in his head plummets to instant numbness._

_“Help.” He thinks he says it. There are people around. He thinks he says it. “Help. Help! Help me!” He has to have said it._

_“’Ony.” Something warm, solid falls against his cheek – Bruce is touching him, reaching for him, Tony practically falls forward to meet him. “’O…’ony.”_

_“What’re you doin’?” He pleads, whines, whimpers, cries, begs. His vision is swimming again. “Stop, stop, stop. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.” A thumb, oddly cold, caresses his cheekbone._

_“’Ony,” soft, breathy. Bruce’s eyes are closing, he’s tired. He’s tired, they’ve been working too hard, he’s stretched himself too far. Tony should take him home, let him sleep. “’Of ‘oo?”_

_“Help!” He says it again, doesn’t he? Isn’t he screaming? The hand falls away heavily; he catches it. Don’t hurt yourself, Bruce. “Help! Help me! Help me!”_

“Tony.”

 

_They can’t sleep in the street, can’t sleep in the rain. What about the little girl? What about the treats?_

“Tony.”

 

_He curls up, feels rapid breaths, coppery wetness against his lips. “Help! **HELP ME!** ” _

 

 

 

**_“Tony!”_ **

****

Yellow light swims in front of his eyes, warmth races to hug his body. He’s dry, he can feel –

 

“Bruce?” It comes out as a croak, his throat is burning. There’s something, something isn’t, “Bruce? Bruce?”

 

“Tony?”

 

He looks up, something spinning back into place as his head moves, and it’s blonde and not brunette that meets him. No, not Bruce. Not Bruce. Rogers. It’s Rogers, cradling Hulk’s rigged Pons devices in his hands like they’re fragile treasures.

 

“Hey,” Rogers says softly. He blinks, concentrates on the man’s face – he looks pale, his lips white, a redness around his eyes – had he been crying? “Tony, hey. _Tony._ ” He moves, turning his face away for a moment as he puts the headpieces carefully on the table, before turning back around. When he reaches out, it’s with a shaky caution that confuses him. “You’re … you’re okay. We were Drifting, remember?”

 

“Drifting,” he echoes. He … yes, he’d been Drifting. He had entered the Drift with Rogers, they’d been testing – “I fell.”

 

“It’s okay,” Rogers assures him quickly – fiercely quick. His voice sounds odd, sounds – _oh fuck, oh fucking hell, shit_ -

 

“I fell, I went, you … you saw that.” It isn’t a question, it doesn’t have to be, he knows what happens when you make a bridge with someone.

 

“Tony-.” It’s cautious, gentle, but he shakes his head. Shakes his head, backs away, because he can still feel Bruce’s confusing blood on his hands, see the disbelief in his fucking beautiful eyes, hear the quick, steadily slowing gasps of breath, the cooling of his body beneath Tony’s aching head.

 

“Get out,” he whispers, throws up a hand at the strangled noise of a suppressed protest. “Rogers, get out. I can’t, you need, _get out.”_

The man leaves without another word, bloodshot eyes watching him sorrowfully as he does.

 

_‘Ony._

Tony doesn’t collapse until he’s back on the top bunk.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“What would you be doing, if none of this had ever happened?”_

_Tony blamed the question on boredom as soon as it left his mouth, though outwardly he owned it. He wasn’t really one for nostalgia, and focusing on paths that had been missed because they couldn’t be taken was a complete waste of time. He didn’t like to dwell, didn’t like to waste the time on something so useless and not particularly pleasant, but, well …_

_Bruce had a look of consideration on his face, lifting his head from the specs for a new repulsor canon for their yet-unnamed mecha so that he could pull off his glasses. Tony liked those damn glasses, nuisance that they were – for some reason he could neither fathom nor explain, they made the other man look endearing._

_“You know, I’m not sure,” Bruce responded, tilting his head to give Tony’s tossed question honest thought. “I think I would have gone for my doctorate – taught nuclear physics while I did research. Or maybe traveled.” He laughed a little, shrugging as his voice became wistful. “I like to think that, even without the Kaiju, I would’ve woken up to the plights of the people of the world, would’ve wanted to help them. Been a good person, and not just … self-serving.”_

_“Honest opinion, from some guy who’s spent the past month literally digging around in your head? That’s exactly what you would’ve been doing.” Tony beamed exaggeratedly because he knew it amused his fellow pilot, and sure enough, Bruce sniggered. “I mean, you might have started out as little asshole Bruce, but, I’m thinking, asshole Bruce would bow down to the superiority of adorable good guy Bruce.”_

_“’Adorable good guy Bruce’,” Bruce mouthed, shoulders still trembling in mirth as he looked back to his notes. “Yeah, okay. Well, what about you? What would you be doing, right now, if the ocean floor hadn’t split open?”_

_“Oh, that’s easy,” Tony scoffed, tapping his stylus against a display screen to open a new one. “I only left the chance to run my old man’s billion-dollar company because of the Kaiju and the jaegers. So without them, I’d be … ironically, designing and selling weapons. Only weapons to use against, you know, other people, and not ocean-Earth-alien-monster … things.”_

_“That’s why they came up with the name ‘Kaiju’, exactly for people like you.” Bruce was smiling. “Honest opinion, from some guy who’s spent the past month literally digging around in your head?” He mimicked, laughing again as Tony pulled a face. “You might have started out as little asshole Tony, but from what I’ve seen of you, I’m thinking asshole Tony would gladly make way for adorable good guy Tony.”_

_“I’m not adorable,” Tony argued quickly, feeling the back of his neck heat up at the praise._

_“Sure you are,” Bruce shot back absently, and then froze, cheeks coloring as Tony blinked at him._

_Oh._

* * *

 

 

 

“They tell me that it was the local police who found us.”

 

Tony sits at the table with Rogers, his food tray untouched, the headpieces out and ready again. Again. Maybe he had never put them back in the first place.

 

“It was hours later. Night. The rain had stopped.” _He_ stops, sucks in a breath because he remembers it now, the coldness of the air, of the body he’d been pressed up to. “You heard me screaming, in the Drift, but apparently I never did. Scream, call for help. They tell me my concussion was too severe to really process what was happening. They tell me I was saying “what’re you doin’?” over and over in his ear. That one, at least, I believe. Because I was telling myself that before they told me about it.

 

“It was stupid, you know? The whole thing, all of it, every bit. Going into the city without a guard or weapon or fuck, _permission._ Me thinking we were invincible, that I was protecting him from himself, that I didn’t stay close to him that day. That he was killed by a normal man, that he died from being stabbed five times in the abdomen instead of in the war he signed up for. _Stupid_.” His fault. It’s his fault.

 

Rogers is still quiet. A piece of Tony regrets giving him this, telling him, but … but he’d had to see it, in Tony’s head, because when he had fallen he’d taken Rogers with him, made him live through Tony’s emotions and a stranger’s death. It’s only fair, that he get some details. _He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t called for help, had held his best friend and his lover in his arms and taken his last breaths for himself instead of going for someone who could have made them not the last breaths at all-_

“So, as you see, I can’t Drift. I can connect, but to Drift with someone is to make it through those memories. And I can’t … can’t **do that.** I can’t let that go.”

 

He can’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_When Bruce reached out for him after they disconnected, still inside Hulk with the team waiting on the loading dock to help remove their piloting suits, Tony thought it was for a_ _hug or high-five or something equally strange from the basket of wonders that was Bruce Banner._

_What he hadn’t expected was for large hands to gently release and remove his helmet, pull off his own, and chapped lips to kiss his._

_It hadn’t been a difficult connection – Tony had slipped into a memory pocket, grabbed Bruce and pulled himself out before anything more than the empty feeling of loneliness could touch him. It had lingered, as such a strong emotion could be expected to, but he’d made it out. It was nothing to worry about. No memories of home life, of crappy childhood, of anything that demanded pity. Just a feeling, just a feeling it was going to take days to shake … that was oddly dimming now._

_“Bruce?” he queried when the other pilot finally pulled back, panting slightly. For some reason, his friend smiled, a touch sad, but mostly fond, lifting his hand to card his fingers through Tony’s hair before grasping it to pull him forward._

_“I’ve got you,” Bruce whispered, and kissed him again._

 

* * *

 

 

“Yeah, see, I thought I said _no_.”

 

Rogers is standing in his room again, a tray of chicken and potatoes on the table, both headpieces in his hands.

 

“In fact, you told me I could say no. Remember? “No one will think less of you for it". You said those words, I distinctly remember this.”

 

“I’m not asking you to pilot Hulk,” Rogers counters, shaking his head. “I’m asking you to Drift.”

 

“And I told you, _I can’t.”_ It comes out as a snarl because Tony doesn’t try to make it anything else. _“_ You saw what happened last time, you literally felt it. I’ll help Fury find someone else to match you with, there’s gotta be someone else out there other than me, but it _won’t_ be me.”

 

“Do you remember,” the man begins softly, as if Tony hadn’t spoken at all. “What I told you, when you asked me what I knew about Drifting?”

 

“Uh, that you have a friend? Seriously, Rogers, get the fuck out-.”

 

“That I had a friend with terrible memories, and that we had Drifted with them.” Tony’s interruptions are rolling off of this guy as easy as waves over a sea rock.  “I told you that I know how to deal with them.”

 

“This isn’t a _terrible fucking memory_ -“ In a blink, both devices are in one of Rogers’ hands, because Rogers’ other hand is over Tony’s mouth.

 

“I know,” he says soothingly, genuine grief answering Tony’s homicidal glare. “I know it’s not. It’s so, so much more than that. It’s not a nuisance, or a block. It’s a tragedy, a crack – a bruise on your heart that you won’t heal and hurts when you move. You don’t have to tell me I’m right, I can see on your face that I am. And I’ll tell you right now that I don’t understand this loss on the same level as you, or even half as much as you do. I don’t want to get rid of your pain, Tony, and I don’t want you to suppress it. What I want you to do.” He lifts the headpieces. “Is remember why you have it.”

 

He removes his hand from Tony’s mouth, puts one of the Pons pieces on the table, and fits the other over his head, staring at Tony the entire time. There’s still no expectation on his face, but there’s need in his eyes, and Tony feels a hundred times heavier underneath its weight as Rogers moves to pick the other piece up again.

 

“I promised I could help you get to the other side of the Drift, if you trusted me. Give me that chance, Tony,” he pleads earnestly. “Whatever you do with that ability afterward is up to you, but let me fulfill my promise to get you there. _Please.”_

_(“I want to win this.”)_

Tony takes the headpiece, and slips it on.

 

“This will be just like last time,” he warns, rolling his eyes as he begins matching the connectors. “You’re going to have to pull … pull me away. I mean out. Pull me out. Preferably before the whole, you know. You can do that, can’t you buddy? I mean, you’ve only seen it once, but surely it’s not that forge-.”

 

“When was the first time he told you he loved you?” Rogers cuts in, straight-faced and firm. Tony freezes.

 

“W-what?”

 

“The first time he told you he loved you. You remember, don’t you?”

 

Of course he fucking remembers. It’s the brightest memory in his mind, the sun of his pathetic planet and stars. “Yeah,” he grits out, teeth grinding together in quick succession.

 

To his surprise, Rogers reaches out and grabs his jaw, tugs just enough to separate his teeth. “Of course you do,” he murmurs, smiling warmly. “Hearing that from someone you love, trust, want to be with? It must have been the best feeling in the world. Not easy to forget.” Tony doesn’t really notice when Steve’s free hand grabs for the last connector set, his fingers expertly fiddling with the ends. “Was it in Hulk, after a fight? In the lab? Did he say it at the Mess while watching you eat breakfast?”

 

Incredulity at this man breeds enthusiastically in his chest. “In the Mess, what, the hell? No-.”

 

Rogers snaps the ends together, and they’re falling under again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Sorry the blanket’s ratty,” Bruce says sheepishly, his adorable small smile on his lips, embarrassment on his face. It shouldn’t make Tony smile. “I brought it from my apartment. The sheets are scratchy too, sorry, they’re old. The pillows-.”_

_“Bruce,” Tony cuts off, knocking their knees together. “The blanket is fine, the sheets are fine, the pillows are … passable-“ he grins innocently at the glare “-but honestly, is it the bed you want to talk about right now?” The next motion is a pointed roll of his hips. “Really?”_

_Because they’re naked. They’re naked, sprawled in the cramped space of the top bunk, Bruce between Tony’s thighs and neither of them exactly uninterested. The room is dark, save for the green lights reflecting off of their newly developed Pons system headpieces, connected to each other for diagnostics. It makes the entire thing almost dreamlike, and if it hadn’t been for his constant trips in Drifting, he might’ve believed that to be the case._

_“… No. It’s not,” Bruce allows, pulling him back, still with his tiny smile. His hands reach to smooth over Tony’s ribs, making him squirm, making them both laugh. “It’s just, are you … are you sure you want-?”_

_“You?” Tony finishes in offer, lifting his eyebrows. “You’re perfect, you’re exactly what I want. You’re exactly_ all _I want. Don’t make this awkward, Banner,” he scolds. “Just fuck me, and keep fucking me, and be the only person who fucks me, and let me be the only person you fuck.”_

_It’s apparently the right thing to say, because Bruce’s head leans down to bite at his neck, and his hand moves down below his waist._

_“Not really fucking,” is mumbled in his ear._

_And it’s not. Tony has fucked, and been fucked – he knows the act almost as well as he knows Bruce, and this, whatever this man is doing to him, whatever his body is doing_ back _, it’s not fucking. It’s still hungry, sure. Still needy, still desperate. But Bruce isn’t harsh, isn’t inconsiderate – he spends a good half-hour worshipping Tony with his mouth, caressing him with his hands, pauses only when Tony’s own fingers trace over his myriad of scars. When they kiss it isn’t a fight but a dance, like they’re still Drifting, still connected, still inside of each other’s heads and happy to be there. Tony soaks up the attention of Bruce’s fingers inside of him, moans like a whore for the fun of it as they plunge in, out, massage and stretch and gently tease. He pushes down on Tony’s shoulder when he tries to reciprocate, smiles as he holds him there, leaves him there until he’s begging and whining and demanding-_

_Falls completely silent as Bruce enters him._

_It’s not fucking. God, it’s_ not. _There’s no show, no dirty talking, no games or gimmicks or a desire to be finished_ quickly. _All of that dies away with the first shallow, pointed thrust – lust standing in second to something else completely. Tony’s not trying to make noise, but his breaths are all coming out as little cries, tiny desperate whimpers because why does it always have to be so different with Bruce than with anyone else? Why is it always so different, even before they Drifted?_

_Bruce is inside of him, his hand around him, his lips on his neck and jaw and cheeks, holding him and being held by him, whispering out words and noises that mean absolutely nothing, and Tony just drinks it in, revels in it, pushes it right back, almost cries when their tempo begins to speed up, not forceful, but inevitable. It’s inevitable-_

_“I love you,” Bruce pants into his neck, sudden, nips at the skin there and pulls back, eyes shining brightly, gleams of green in the brown irises from the lights on the Pons. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Kisses him again._

_‘Why is it all I ever think to you is ‘Oh’,’ Tony doesn’t wonder. Doesn’t wonder, because he’s chanting it back in time. “I love you. Fuck, fuck Bruce. I love you too, I do, fuck, I love you.” Wants it to last forever._

_Something tugs._

_It never lasts forever._

 

 

 

“Shh,” someone is saying. Fingers pushing through his hair, swiping comfortingly across his face. “Shh, Tony. Shh. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

 

Rogers. Not Bruce.

 

“I love him,” he chokes out, throat dry. “I love him. Fuck, God, _please_.” Something hot is dripping down his face. “I love him, please, _please.”_

Rogers hushes him as he cries, _sobs_ , on the floor of his personal quarters, holds him tightly as he tries to break out of his skin, shatter his bones and bleed out into the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“_ _I think I’ll die in battle,” Tony said, shooting a look at Bruce from across the table in the Mess. Beside Bruce, Jane Foster nodded in agreement, not really listening, but Tony still tipped his head toward her for Bruce to see that someone agreed._

_His lover, however, just laughed. “No you won’t.” He dipped his green beans into his mashed potatoes, laughing again at Tony’s disgust as he popped the forkful into his mouth. “You’re going to live to be in your hundreds, just because life is vindictive and you’d_ hate it. _” From beside Tony, Darcy giggled as Clint snorted._

_“Yeah, well, what about you, big guy?” Tony shot back, eyeing him. “You gonna be there with me?”_

_Bruce smiled, a wider, cheerier thing than normal. “Careful. I just might.”_

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

**_4_ ** **_Months Later_ **

****

 

Tony keeps to the shadows as he makes his way to his destination, avoiding eye contact, counting his steps in sets of twenty and restarting every time a foot catches on nothing. The hood of Bruce’s old hoodie is drawn up over his head, as usual, and while at this point it’s probably more of an identifier than a protection, he doesn’t particularly care. It’s comfortable.

 

The counter in the main corridor indicates that they are due for a Kaiju attack within the next week. Most regard it with dread. To him, it’s a sign.

 

He’s met outside his destination by Lucky, the mutt mix Coulson had magnanimously agreed (read, given in) to let Clint have. The yellow dog wags its tail at the sight of him, licking at his hands as he nears, but not barking. Lucky never barks at Tony, as if he understands the man’s urge to remain unseen.

 

Personally, Tony thinks the dog is too good for Clint, but then, a dumb fuck owner should have a smart dog to look out for them.

 

He walks into a large room that rains sparks and oil, the dog at his heels as he sucks in the scent of machine and engineering. It’s been so long since he’s been here, that it’s almost overwhelming. As it is, he draws Bruce’s hoodie in tighter, and steps toward the two figures waiting for him.

 

“Hey,” he calls out, finally stepping out of his silence. As if it’s a cue, Lucky darts from Tony’s side to Clint as the trainer turns around, and predictably the man goes to his knees for his dog, burying his hands in the fluffy scruff and throwing out compliments at bullet speed. He rolls his eyes, not admitting to the fondness he feels at the sight, and turns his attention to the other figure.

 

“Tony,” the blonde greets.

 

“Steve.” They both grin, small sharp things of too much pain and knowledge, and without fanfare, Steve steps from Tony’s sight, allowing him full view of Hulk.

 

Hulk, void of the red and gold, now coated with jealous, wounded green covering him from head to toe.

 

He’s fucking gorgeous, exactly as Tony remembers and so much more.

 

“He’ll be combat ready as soon as you reinstall the Pons.” Steve is right against his back, the barest hint of an inch between them, breath hot on his ear. “Did they get the shade of green right?”

 

“You know they did,” he replies, looking up at the jaeger. God, he’s missed this damn mecha, missed how it feels inside of it, misses connecting with Bruce in it, walking with Bruce in it-

 

“I just want to make sure it’s perfect,” Steve admits lowly, and Tony can hear his smile. “I’ve been inside your head so much that I feel like … I feel like I know him. Bruce. Feel like I know him almost as well as you do. I want him to be there with us, whenever we fight.”

 

It’s not something they really talk about. There are so many side-effects to Drifting that haven’t quite been discovered yet, most harmless, like trait absorption, but others … not quite. Ghost Drifting is something SHIELD is very focused on, but what Steve describes, about knowing Bruce, it’s something … something different.

 

It doesn’t bother Tony. The idea of Bruce and Steve knowing each other, getting along with each other, with _him_ –

 

“You’re happy,” Steve notes, half question, half declaration. Tony smirks and shrugs.

 

“Not one-hundred percent, probably never one-hundred percent but … Getting up there, maybe. Close. Don’t tell anyone, though,” he adds that part seriously. “I like it when people are too scared of upsetting me to bother me while I’m working. _Like Clint_.” He receives a middle finger for his trouble. “… Ask me again when we’re fighting a Kaiju, though.”

 

Through the back of Bruce's hoodie, Steve kisses his head.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone curious, [this version of this song is what goes with this story. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUFpTijOkFg)
> 
> I wrote over half of this after being up for 26 hours -- all unintentional errors and incorrect tense shifts are completely and possibly apologetically mine. Intentional errors, I claim with pride.


End file.
